Killer Queen
by Tom O'Bedlam
Summary: Chronological drabbles of Khashoggi and Killer Queen.
1. It started off so well

_**(A/N)**Nothing belongs to me. What doesn't belong to Queen probably belongs to Thessaly, who inspired me to first see the show, then write about it. I'm really not sure how this chapter came out; please give me advice on how to make it read well._

'What do you want to do when you grow up?' he asked one afternoon. They were sitting in his back yard, two children with their computers open, chatting to all their friends. That they talked to each other, in non-virtual reality, was a detail that they never bothered to mention. She was the most popular girl in school; he was the most intelligent boy. They had gone out, for a while, but she'd moved on to other prey and he chose to immerse himself in computers and psychology.

'Rule the world,' she said, stretching. He, and his name was Casey, or something equally dull and unsuitible, laughed at that. She didn't say the way most do, as something impossible, but as if it were the most natural thing in the world. It had always been her ambition to dominate, and she saw no difficulty in succeeding at it.

'You'll be good at that,' he said with a grin. He reached out to pull one of her curls (she always had her hair done in the fashion of the month, and it always looked better on her than on anyone else), but she pushed his hand carelessly away.

'Of course I will.' There was a pause, as they both attended to other friends who were talking to them. They often did this, sitting in his back yard and chatting. It closed a gap in the time information traveled, and it meant he could trace calls and rumors for her without her going to any trouble.

'Casey,' she said a bit later, her thralls satisfied with neat replies, her boyfriend put off until later. 'Why are you here instead at a virtual mall or something?'

'Because you are.' It was the simple answer, and it pleased her. 'I have every intention of helping you rule the world. I'll make you a Killer Queen.'

'You'll make me? I'll make me, thank you all the same. You can tag along.' He acknowledged this with slight smile. 'Killer Queen.' She stretched again, long and sinuous, like a cat. 'I like that.'

Sun (they lived on the edge of the suburbs, where they still got some real sun) filtered through the trees. Two children talked of ruling the world. She was fascinating, and brilliant, and manipulative, so she ruled everything she touched. Including him. He was intelligent, and controlled, and recognized potential. Especially in her.


	2. They said we made a perfect pair

_**(A/N)**Yeah, I just wanted to keep going, so more._

Taking over Globalsoft was almost frighteningly easy. Like dynamite with a laser beam. She was on the board of directors easily; it was twice as easy to have them bending over backwards to please her. The few old sticks who could withstand the concentrated attention of Killer Queen, he'd…dealt with.

The first board meeting when she was officially in charge, they went to together. 'Do I look the part?' she asked. It was the first time since they were children she'd asked his opinion on anything. Possibly the first time she'd asked him about clothes.

'Guaranteed to blow my mind, Madame.' He called her Madame now, because his old pet name for her had become universal, and he felt the need to have something that only he called her.

She laughed, the deep, throaty, erotic laugh that he'd always loved. 'So, my old friend, I'm ruling the world. How shall I go about it?'

'Security, Madame. It was too easy to get here. We have make sure no one can do the same to you.'

'You'll do that.' They looked at the empty boardroom, soon to be filled with the only influential people on Planet Mall. 'They have to stop thinking,' she said. 'To stop thinking about _anything_. Imagination is all it would take to change the world, and I think it's changed enough now.'

'Yes.'

'Who will you be now that you belong to Killer Queen? Still Casey?'

'I have always belonged to you,' he paused, tugging down the sleeves of his immaculate grey suit. 'But no, not Casey. Something more euphonious. Ka-Khashoggi.' He rolled the nonsense syllables off his tongue. They sounded deceptively kind. 'Yes. I will be Khashoggi, Madame.'

'That's not a name.'

He smiled at her, a small, dry smile he'd perfected for her. It frightened most people. 'I shall make it one.'

She laughed again, and he smiled, a smile that only just reached his eyes. They heard movement outside the door. She turned and moved toward it, ermine coat sweeping out behind. Commander Khashoggi, two steps behind and to her left, still smiling a dry, sarcastic, little smile, put on his sunglasses and followed her.


	3. The years of care and loyalty

_**(A/N)**Reviews are apparently thing that happen to other people. I'm ignoring the fact that that means no one particularly likes this and continuing to inflict it on unsuspecting readers. If you don't like it, you've got to tell me so. The structure of the police owes everything to Thessaly. The characters belong to Queen and Ben Elton. This chapter is because I always wondered why Khashoggi has white hair…_

'Killer Queen to Khashoggi.'

'Yes, Madame?'

'I- good god, what have you done with your hair?' For the six year Commander Khashoggi had existed, he had been changeless. Planet Mall was a continually changing place, always wanting the newest, the best. Even the Yes-Things went out to get new wardrobes and hairstyles once a month. Killer Queen, of course, remade herself daily. Commander Khashoggi had, for six years, been a large, bland man with pale brown hair in an immaculate grey suit, white shirt and sunglasses. Even his emails remained in the same font, with the same winged avatar. Now Commander Khashoggi, still pale, still in grey suit and sunglasses, had dead white hair.

'Turned it white, Madame.' It was, rather to her relief, the same monotonal voice he always directed at her.

'It suits you. What of your new method of dealing with rebels? Killing them is making them martyrs.'

'Yes, Madame. I have just finished perfecting the mechanism. It allows us to 'blow their minds,' so to speak, with injuring their bodies. Depending on the strength of character of the person in question, different numbers of treatment are required. Initial treatments can also be used as an effective form of encouragement to the uncooperative; the first treatment rarely causes forgetfulness in the strong-minded.'

'How will it make them talk?'

'I have tested the treatment myself, Madame. The pain was,' he paused, and for a second, his lips twitched. It was the closest thing to a smile she'd seen on his face in years. 'exquisite.'

'Excellent, Khashoggi.' She smiled at him, and laughed luxuriously. 'Now we have the power. They may want it all, but we've got it.'

'You've certainly got the power and the glory, Madame. I am happen to bask in the reflections.'

'Of course you are. You're not the one everyone knows. By the way, I have subject for your new machine.'

'Really, Madame?'

'Yes, the Head of the Committee of Education. Have you seen the schools recently? They're where most of the rebels come from, with their encouragement of individual,' she spat the word out, 'goals. You're to reorganize education, Khashoggi. They must understand that the way to perfection is through unity. One goal, one mission. You, I'm sure, won't fail to understand that.'

Khashoggi's lips twitched again. 'Yes, Madame.'


	4. Nothing but a sham it seems

_**(A/N)**Thanks for reviewing to Thessaly and Tubomba __(who reviewed every chapter; you really know how to make my day). This chapter also owes masses to Thessaly, and her creation of the Meat/Khashoggi ship. I'm really, really not sure about the last bit. Suggestions?_

Commander Khashoggi paced through the hospital. All the Bohemians had had several treatments, and it had made them no more communicative. He was almost willing to believe they really didn't know anything.

'_I love you until I die_

_Save me, save me, save me_

_I can't face this life alone_

_Save me, save me, save me_

_I'm naked and I'm far from home.'_

It was a ragged, desperate voice. An alto: beautiful, arresting. Backing up several steps, Khashoggi looked into the cell. In her green laser cage sat one of the Bohemians, blond and wild and grimy, singing her heart out.

'Khashoggi to YesTwelveGlobalsoft.uk/theWorld. Bring the girl in cell 11358 for questioning.'

After he finished his rounds, he returned to the antiseptic corridor with over bright lights that they used for interrogation. The girl was there in a chair, but she was up as soon as she saw him. 'What do you want me for, pig?'

'I merely want to ask you some questions, Miss' he glanced at his clip board 'Loaf. You have the right to remain silent, of course, but you must realize the consequences to you and your friends if you do.'

'You can't do nothing worse than you have.'

'Can't I?' He caught her wrist pulling her to him, so that he felt the boning of her corset pressed into his stomach.

'Pig!' she spat again, glaring up into his face. Her make-up was a mess. He'd never seen make-up that careless, a face that dirty. The grime on her face accentuated the clearness of her eyes, large and gold-green and on the verge of breaking. He knew that if he pushed, just then, she would split open for him, as so many other subjects had, subjecting him to the stories of their lives, the minutia that was of no interest to anyone.

He shoved her away. 'AllYesThingsGlobalsoft.uk/theWorld. Blow their minds. I'll take them to the Seven Seas of Rhye'

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Killer Queen, majestic and impressive and stunning and dynamite with a laser beam, wanted results, and she wanted them now. This was not particularly unusual. What was unusual was that, for the first time in their relationship, Khashoggi had no results for her. For the first time, he was less than perfection, she was less than perfection. They were less than perfection. Globalsoft created the perfect world; imperfections were a thing of the past. Even as he begged for his life, even as some part of him wished for mercy from someone he given his life for, he recognized the fatality of it, and the irony of his punishment.


	5. Erase the memory

_**(A/N)**Cheers for reviews. This is supposed to segue into Thessaly's **Little Silhouetto**, which she kindly gave me permission to plagiarize (most of the dialogue is lifted from there). She writes better than me; go read her stuff. A clear up on Khashoggi's hair. I meant to imply that it turned white when he first tried the blow-your-mind-machine. Since this clearly didn't come across in that drabble, I'm making it clear now. Also, I'm inclined to think that this might stand better on its own. Comments?  
_

They could have killed him easily, but the Yes-Things were used to doing several treatments, so several treatments were given to their Ex-Commander. The strong-minded, as he'd told her after his first experience under with the treatment, could withstand several treatments and remain sane.

He was in his cell when the Rhapsody came; his memories of minutia were gone, and he considered it a matter of pride that he could still recite most of _Othello_. They let him out with the rest of the prisoners, a dusty, bruised man in a torn grey suit. He followed the crowd to Wembley, because he had nothing else to do. His Killer Queen was dead. And she had destroyed him before that, so he was left, for the first time since he was at school, with no goal, no responsibility, no great passion. He followed the crowds, empty but for some meaningless words of old stories he'd pulled from the school curriculum.

The boy, the Dreamer, Galileo Figaro, was singing. The music had the starry spirit and dreamy imagination and raw emotion that he had worked so hard to destroy for Killer Queen. It didn't appall him. It touched him, and he watched the Dreamer with same hungry desperation of the Bohemians as the words bit into his soul.

_The years of care and loyalty_

_Were nothing but a sham it seems_

_The years belie we lived a lie_

_I love you till I die_

He thought of Killer Queen. The memories, triggered by music, overcame the treatment, and came rushing back. Killer Queen, at seventeen, beautiful and just discovering her power, planning to rule the world. Older, stretched luxuriously on a silky synthetic bedspread, laughing at him, that deep, throaty, beautiful laugh he loved. Older again, in a leopard print coat, a minion holding a hard hat over her head, as she focused the remarkable power of her smile on him.

_The slate will soon be clean_

_I'll erase the memories_

_To start again with somebody new_

_Was it all wasted_

_All that love? ..._

_I have no heart I'm cold inside_

_I have no real intent_

_Save me save me save me_

_I can't face this life alone_

_Save me save me save me..._

_I'm naked and I'm far from home_

He watched the Bohemians. They danced, he thought, as though they meant this minute to last forever, as if it didn't matter who saw them. If he was who he had been…

The security was outrageous. He, Ex-Commander Khashoggi, possibly their worst enemy, had walked in here unchallenged. He sagged against the wall, watching a Bohemian girl with purple hair open a beer. He wished he had the energy to reach out to get one for himself. She looked up and froze, staring at him.

'Hello, pervert.'

'I beg --' Purple hair. Called him pervert. 'You look somewhat familiar.'

'Guess you don't have a very good memory for the faces of the _people you torture_.' He supposed he deserved that. If he had the energy, he might try to explain. 'You look like the living dead. What happened to you?'

'What does it look like? I had my mind blown.' His head pounded in remembered pain.

'What? Really?'

'Yes, really.' He'd always been sarcastic. It was why, she'd said, he was better than any of her other people.

'Why?'

He hadn't been sure, after several treatments. The music had brought it back, with frightening and painful clarity. 'The Dreamer and his Bad-Arsed Babe…they're not lost, we just don't know where they are…'

'So, what, you screw up once and she sends you down with the prisoners?'

It was how they'd meant it to be: imperfections were intolerable. 'Correct.'

'Doesn't having your mind blown mean they wipe your memory?'

'Correct.'

'Then how do you know who we are?'

He didn't, exactly. Except the Dreamer. Galileo's life and Khashoggi's were so intertwined, he didn't anything short of death would remove the Dreamer from his memory. 'Those machines have never been perfect. There is a significant margin of error, especially on the…strong-minded.' He thought, ruefully, of his hair, of the necessary imperfection in the system.

'Such as yourself.'

'But of course.' He thought of all the Bohemians there. He was sure some of them had been in the lot he had consigned to the Seven Seas of Rhye. 'Neither were the designed to deal with…'

'The power of living rock?' Khashoggi raised an eyebrow. His vision clouded again, and he hoped he wouldn't fall over.

'Sit down before you fall over.' The Dreamer. One of the few people whose face and voice was demonstrably unforgettable. Khashoggi obediently folded onto a beer crate, because he had no choice. 'What are you doing here, then?'

His vision was cloudy again from the sudden change in elevation. Frowning, he replied, 'I was in prison. And then I wasn't. I just followed the crowds. To,' the words came to his mind and he said them, well aware of his failure to understand, 'the Place of Champions.'

'Right.' The witch-girl. He supposed that he ought to be frightened of her; she had the same charisma and purpose Killer Queen had. But years of Killer Queen and pain dulled the instinct to fear. 'Now what? You can't exactly go around spying for anybody; I'd say you're out of job.'

He supposed he was. He hadn't thought of it; he had never supposed he would survive, once he lost the Dreamer. 'I don't know.' That he was still alive, and that he was likely to remain so, was gradually sinking in. He looked at the Dreamer. Who would have supposed Killer Queen's successor would be so different from her. This boy, ideals fresh and sparkling in his eyes and music, looked at the Commander of the Secret Police, and those eyes said he was forgiven. Khashoggi, who had nothing to lose, returned the gaze, promising the loyalty of a worn-out heart and mind.

'Ok.' It was a bargain. Khashoggi thought about what could be done with security. 'But I'm not the only person who knows you.'

Khashoggi nodded, resting his weary head on his hands. Security. Linear thought would keep him sane.

'What's chilling, Dreamer?'

That voice. He knew that voice, a honeyed alto with sharp edges. 'What the fuck is he doing here? Galileo, what -- That's Commander Khashoggi.'

That memory had been returned, too. He didn't belong to Killer Queen any more and Commander Khashoggi had been created for her. 'Ex-Commander,' he said, looking up. Into gold-green eyes, fragile and defiant. 'You. I remember you.'

She glared. 'Likewise, pig. "I'll take you to the Seven Seas of Rhye."' She wasn't drunk, not yet. 'Bastard.' The word was clear, enunciated, and full of emotion.

And he remembered where he'd heard her voice before. 'No, I mean after. You were next to me,' he didn't looked at her as he tried to explain. It hurt, to probe those torn-up pathways in his brain rather shy from the remembered pain. 'They put me in my cell, and all night I could you…singing.' It came to him that it was the song the Dreamer had been singing, the one that had hurt him again, as it had hurt him then. 'Save me, save me, save me; I can't face this life alone.'

'Yeah?'

'I was surprised. I kept hearing it, all night, and into the day. All the time, this voice near me singing.' He wasn't even sure she'd still been there or if it had been a result of the treatment that he still heard her voice. 'I remember thinking, hell, she shouldn't be able to sing at all, let alone after the treatment.'

'The treatment?' The voice was ragged now, raw emotion overriding its natural smoothness. 'That's what you call it? Like it's some kind of medical procedure? What kind of sick bastard are you anyway?' Tears formed in her eyes and spilled down painted cheeks like drops of liquid crystal. He had never seen Killer Queen cry; he doubted she knew how. 'People like you shouldn't have that kind of power.'

'What kind of power?'

'Destruction.' It was a challenge. The tears and heat had melted her mascara and it ran down her face in sticky black streaks. When he just looked at her, wondering at the energy in her that sustained so much emotion, she snapped, in a way he couldn't remember seeing before. 'He said he'd always come back for me, all the time, every time he went out, and he didn't, and it's all your fault, and I hate you, and your stupid goons, and your treatment, and your attitude, it's like you think you're so much better than everybody else because they pay you to track us down just because we're different, and why is that bad anyway, to be different and to want to live and to have fun and to be in love, why is that so bad so fuck you, fuck the universe, fuck life it's not fair, because he's not here anymore and he's never going to come back ever and it's all your fault.' The words battered him, slamming into his tired brain, sending it screaming along painful half-forgotten paths. He stood perfectly still, confronted again with a barrage of images. Killer Queen, demanding that they find the Bohemians. Himself, sending emails to Yes Things, getting the results, organizing the team. Planning perfect monotony with his Killer Queen. And lastly, repeatedly, an image burning itself into his exhausted brain. It was a tall, muscular, black man in a tattered kilt, diving through a laser cage into a fight he couldn't hope to win. She collapsed against him, worn out by the storm of emotion. 'It's all your fault,' she said and her voice was clogged with tears. Gently, he put his hands on the sweaty, grimy, glittery shoulders, feeling the lace and the corset boning beneath sensitive fingers.

He closed his eyes, taking in her closeness: the feeling of her tears seeping into his shoulder, the scratch of her hair under his chin, the warmth of her body pressed up against his. Something stung his cheek and he realized that he was crying. It felt…good. Like holding her. It was something he hadn't done, something his tired, battered memory had no matching image for, something that merely felt right.

At some point she stopped crying. At some point later she pulled away from him and he let her go. 'What are you going to do now?' She glared, almost up to the standard of the witch-girl, intensified by the black splotches of mascara and eye shadow.

'I don't know,' he said tiredly, honestly. 'I think I will help your Dreamer.'

'Why should he let you?'

Groping for words, Khashoggi came up again with the words from one of the songs, 'I have no heart, I'm cold inside, I have no real intent.' He paused, hearing over again in his mind the lyrics he'd just quoted, like a mantra, leaving blazing trails of pain over his memory. 'He might need me for something.'

_And you're rushing headlong you've got a new goal_

_And you're rushing headlong out of control_

The Dreamer was singing again, and her eyes filled once. She said, quickly, 'Never mind. Dance with me.' And pulled him out of the corner, to lose herself in the dance and the music and noise so loud it drowned out all possibility of thought. She pulled him away from the wall and into a writhing mass of bodies, no longer individuals, giving themselves over to a new kind of unity; dissolving into music and flashing lights and hot sweaty flesh pressed up against someone else, anyone else.

_And you think you're so strong_

_But there ain't no stopping no there's nothin' you can do about it_


End file.
